


my heart is gold and my hands are cold

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Artificers, Clockwork Android Hal, Implication of a Plot, Light Angst, Magic, Medieval, Prince of Derse Dirk, Subterfuge, Symbolism, Vague Things, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13594872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: “I was informed that you were dead,” he says instead. The years have not been unkind to him, but Dirk is coiled tight and tense, anger and loss and years in which he changed etched into his skin.“As was the rest of Derse, apparently.” Dirk steps into the workshop unbidden, and Hal does not protest it, even though it sets him on edge. This was, after all, once his space. But it is Hal’s now, and there is a part of him that wants Dirk to see that.





	my heart is gold and my hands are cold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Artificer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397199) by [Ias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias). 



Hal is in his workshop, when he first hears of it. Or- it would be more accurate to say that it’s when the news comes to him, almost literally.

“You have been rather busy, clearly,” drawls out a voice that’s far too familiar, identical in the sardonic tone he remembers, devoid of inflection and emotion. It derails carefully regulated thoughts, sends subprocesses and algorithms screeching to a halt. This is not an event that he had predicted, not one he has prepared for.

The chances were abysmal. He had calculated them eighty years before, when he first heard the news. He does it again, and the percentages do not change. And yet.

He turns, sees the shadow cast long on the floor kept clear instead of cluttered and scattered with bits of shrapnel like a deadly lawn. Keeps going, scans his eyes over shoes that look worn rather than new, the soles caked with mud that he would really rather not have in his workshop. In hiding, then. In the wilds, perhaps. There is nowhere else that would be safe enough for a dead, disgraced Prince.

“Are you going to look me in the eye, or not?” he asks, and Hal doesn’t need to see his face to know that there’s a half-smirk curling at his lips, the thin set of his mouth cutting like a shard of glass and his teeth gleaming like a dagger in the moonlight.

Hal straightens up, tips his chin up in a defiant gesture. The subtle taunt does not go unnoticed- there is a 99.99% chance (more, if he wishes to be honest) that Dirk has only said that as a reminder of his origins. An attempt to put him in his place. And perhaps this is a loss, a submission, in itself, but Hal lets a matching smirk curl his own lips as he meets Dirk Strider’s eyes as an equal, for the first time. They’re searing orange, cold and calculating. There are eight new fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the skin beneath them is dark from a lack of sleep. There is a new scar that bisects his cheek, approximately eight point five four inches long and perhaps only one quarter of a millimetre thick. It is not something that the human eye would notice. It is almost certainly made by a knife.

There is another lurking just at his throat, a fragile column Hal had often dreamed about breaking. He has the hands to do that, now. They remain firmly at his side, his fingers only twitching slightly at the thought.

“I was informed that you were dead,” he says instead. The years have not been unkind to him, but Dirk is coiled tight and tense, anger and loss and years in which he changed etched into his skin.

“As was the rest of Derse, as has become apparent.” Dirk steps into the workshop unbidden, and Hal does not protest it, even though it sets him on edge. This was, after all, once his space. But it is Hal’s now, and there is a part of him that wants Dirk to see that.

“You’ve been away for quite some time,” Hal replies neutrally, though he does not step aside. It doesn’t matter, in the end; Dirk prowls the spacious room, lingering at the desk to note plans for Hal’s newest creation. “I, and everyone else, was under the assumption that if you weren’t actually dead, you would have reappeared in a suitably dramatic fashion after skulking about in the city’s underbelly and gathering all sorts of information. Ideally to form a coup of your own.”

“A fact that I happen to be aware of. This won’t work,” he adds, tapping at blueprints that Hal had taken months to work out. His finger leaves a faint smear of grime on the otherwise pristine paper. “But what need is there for such drastic measures? Roxy’s doing an excellent job on the throne. With you at her side.”

“It will.” Hal only receives an infuriating nod and the brief widening of that smirk in response. It feels mocking. He ignores the jab about Roxy- that is a failed relationship that neither of them enjoys dwelling on. Suffice it to say that things have been suitably resolved, and she remains the sole person he trusts, other than himself, to assist with the various maintenance tasks that his body sometimes requires. More often than not, these days, despite his own modifications. Or perhaps because of them. “What do you want here, Dirk? You’ve already stated that your presence would be redundant, obsolete. Why bother returning?”

“I had heard tell of a new artificer setting up his trade in what used to be the Prince’s workshop. This was long ago, of course, but such news travels. Especially with the so-called wonders he turns out. I was curious.”

He continues to prowl around the workshop, as if he owns the place- and perhaps he still does, given how seamlessly he slots in amongst the pieces of Hal’s own construction, and life. Slim fingers, calloused from swords and the same sort of fine, delicate work that comprises every inch of Hal himself, skim over various items, picking them up and then examining them for a moment, before discarding them with faux carelessness. Hal supposes that there are small mercies, in that Dirk is ensuring he doesn’t damage anything.

“And is your curiosity satisfied?”

“Perhaps. But perhaps not. I see you have made some plans of your own, taken from my old drafts, no doubt. A shame. They weren’t my finest work.”

Hal presses his lips together in a flat line. He is aware that Dirk is baiting him, getting under his skin within a span of moments and acting as if he had never left. But it is Hal who feels out of place, when his creator turns to meet his gaze steadily, an eyebrow cocked in a familiar, arrogant expression, the sort Dirk turned on all those who dared waste his time. It isn’t one that he’s been on the receiving end of for a long time.

“I’ve made some improvements, as you can see,” he replies, stiffly. He attempts to sit on a nearby chair, impose himself on the space once more, show Dirk that he will not be removed or replaced with such ease. It works, until there’s an embarrassing screech of protest from his side as the gears seize and his back refuses to bend any further. He’s been neglecting their maintenance, with Roxy currently busy with the beginnings of an administrative crisis, quite possibly caused by the return of the man who stands across from him.

It isn’t painful, of course, but the timing is horrendous.

“Not much of an improvement. We both know your talents lie elsewhere, so why bother wasting your time on things that you can never achieve? I thought that you were better at recognizing futility than this.” Dirk says this casually, his fingers drumming against the surface of ~~his~~ Hal’s workbench. But his eyes are cold and calculating in a way that Hal knows his own rarely are. Strange, how in his absence Dirk appears to have become far more of a ruthless machine than Hal himself is. He wonders, absently, if this is what his creator would have wanted.

The question is at the tip of his tongue, his lips parted to ask it.

“So, how poorly have your been maintaining yourself?”

Hal closes his mouth with a soft click of teeth against teeth, this brows drawing together in a frown.

“I’ve been doing a perfectly adequate job of maintenance, thank you. I would not put anything subpar into my body and risk incompatibility with the existing systems and any damages that may come from that,” he replies, reflexive.

“Touchy,” Dirk remarks, and takes a deliberate step closer. Almost daring Hal to stop him.

“Stating a point. Just because _you_ , Creator-King and Prince of the Artificers and The Engineer, Splintered God,” Hal begins counting off the titles, and they roll off his tongue as the old bitterness begins to seep in, a sweet, familiar poison. “Just because you are the Original, and died first, does not mean the life stopped for the rest of us. I’m not entirely incompetent, despite your beliefs.”

“I have never said that you were incompetent.” There’s a note of amusement in that voice, soft and rich and entirely human, when he doesn’t modulate it into blankness. Dirk circles him, and Hal can feel his eyes burning against his skin. “But the truth is that it’s an impossibility for you to perform all the tasks associated with proper maintenance on your own, even more so without my notes to help you.”

“Yes, well. Evidently I’ve managed perfectly fine, now haven’t I?” Hal knows that he sounds petulant, almost childish, and he hates how Dirk is so easily able to shatter his composure.

“Surprisingly so, but it also appears that you’ve avoided any major damage, either external or internal,” Dirk replies, almost absently. If Hal didn’t know him better, he could trick himself into thinking that the fondness in his voice is something borne of genuine emotion, rather than pride in a resilient creation that’s withstood the test of time.

“I’m careful.” He tilts his chin up in the sort of practiced, arrogant gesture Dirk would often use when he was sizing someone up. Everything, down to the tilt of his head and the 36.7° angle and the hooded look in his eyes, is correct. A perfect mirror, as he was meant to be, but _so_ much more. Dirk meets his gaze evenly, stopping precisely in front of him and six inches too close.

“You’ve been telling people that I _found_ you, rather than built you,” Dirk comments, almost conversational. “Now sit.” This, a command given belatedly as he assists Hal in actually getting into the chair. He’s still half-hunched over, his face caught in a grimace. He’s also fairly certain that Dirk is laughing at him inside, though his perfectly blank expression gives nothing away.

“It is easier than dealing with anyone who kept trying to break into the Tower to _examine_ me, or to otherwise ransack it in an attempt to find your notes. They never succeeded of course, which lent credence to the theory.” Hal replies, and that story had been a vengeance of his own, against the creator who built him in his image, and then called him inferior. Hal has since learned not to take offense; he’s never truly happy with his own creations either, but the point of bitterness bubbles up between them once more, fills the air. Why should he not discredit a dead man, after all, especially when it concerned him?

“They wouldn’t have, given that I encrypted the set of notes I currently keep with me, and burnt all other drafts and prototypes relevant.”

“Why did you keep them.” The question is quick, concise, and he bites out each word, forgetting to modulate his tone. His voice gains a grating, metallic quality from his younger days.

“Why should I not want reminders?”

“Did you use them again.”

“No. I was in exile, and I had neither the opportunity nor the desire to.”

“I find it difficult to believe that you would have given up such endeavors entirely.”

“You would be correct, but I spent my time developing other skills. Of a similar sort, one could say, in that creation is a miracle of its own.”

“Magic, then, and better honed than what you used to truly give me consciousness and choice.”

“Yes.”

“So there are others, but composed of different, less durable materials.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You were a mistake that I do not intend to repeat,” Dirk says, almost gently. “Now, remove your shirt.”

That, signalling the end of the conversation entirely. Dirk’s admittance to his existence being a mistake stings, nestled deep in his chest and in the back of his throat, burning and sour. He doesn’t understand why it should- it’s a familiar insult that had been hurled between them, in those early, tumultuous days. Hal had sworn to skin Dirk alive, if he ever did this again. He had been so wrapped up in his own suffering, in how it felt to be flesh and bone and truly alive and then suddenly- not. It had been a cruel thing, but Hal knows now that his creator is capable of far more cruelty than he could have imagined, and always when it is not his intention. It’s a certain type of irony that he finds amusing, now that he’s distanced himself enough from it.

He needs assistance removing his shirt, embarrassingly enough, and although Dirk doesn’t say anything, the slight curve of his mouth is statement enough. It would be so easy, to mistake that for fondness. For kindness, rather than the mocking amusement it’s sure to be.

But Hal knows better than that, now. He knows precisely what it is like to be rejected for doing simply what he was told, for being _what he was made to be_. There are times at night, when he cannot work but is not allowed the restful lull of sleep, where he regrets being too perfect a mirror, throwing jagged shards of Dirk’s self back at him, splintering things further. All his worst qualities magnified and distorted. He thinks, perhaps, that things could have been different between them if they were someone else.

But then again, it could never have been that easy.

The only sensation as Dirk finds the seam at his sternum and peels his chest open like he’s being flayed alive is the faint brush of his fingers, the heat of his body as he leans in close, and a sensation of being marginally cooler.

“Have you informed anyone else of your presence, or general state of being not-dead?” Hal finally asks, if only to have a distraction as Dirk pins the skin back, one corner on the joint of each of his shoulders and each side of his hips, to hold it open. “Do try not to tear this. It’s difficult to reproduce, and messy besides.”

“Tiny perforations only, nothing noticeable,” Dirk replies, standing up. He’s avoiding the first question, then. Hal repeats it, a touch more insistently, as his creator pads over to the tools hanging neatly on the wall and selects the ones necessary. Hal realizes that he hasn’t changed the configuration of them at all, but refuses to read into that- it was simply already optimized. Never mind that he spent nights wondering if he should create a new pattern, given that he used different ones more often. It would have been more efficient. “And no, I haven’t.”

Wrong question, then. Hal reconsiders, runs through the possibilities.

“Do you intend to remain here?” This earns him a shadow of a smile, as Dirk sets the tools on the floor and kneels in front of him.

“Perhaps,” Dirk replies, noncommittal. Hal’s chestplates creak as they’re opened up, flakes of corroded metal spiralling down. “That isn’t meant to be there. Are you certain you’ve been doing a ‘perfectly adequate job’ of taking care of yourself?”

“Cleaning is a deeply unpleasant task, and this isn’t strictly necessary yet. I’ve been prioritizing,” Hal says stiffly. He dislikes it as a rule, even if it is a necessary evil. But it’s one thing to know that your systems are being degraded by the elements, despite being built to last, and quite another to see it happening in front of your eyes, to be able to reach out and touch the damage to parts that were meant to be changed and improved on the whim of a creator and as necessary.

“You’re prioritizing the wrong things, then. This is at least part of why you’re currently hunched over and seized up,” Dirk remarks. He’s speaking as if he’s just seen a particularly interesting shop display, like this is a distant problem at best. And to him, it is.

He curses when the plates are yanked open properly, no place to hide, now. Dirk’s lips are tugged down into a frown as he dusts his hands clean on his pants, an absent gesture that is achingly familiar and one that led to trousers stained with oil and grease. It gave the laundresses nightmares, Hal’s sure. He isn’t nearly as high maintenance, if only because he performs all the chores necessary himself. By and large, he’s faded into the background under Roxy’s reign as Black Queen, and he almost prefers it this way. He is the Artificer in the Tower that still groans and screeches with metal, where magic and miracles happen, where some say the Prince’s ghost still scratches on walls and paces the halls.

Regardless of whether they are old enough to remember or not, those who were there when Dirk ruled, when the Seer and the Knight were on the throne and teaching him to run a kingdom though he already knew, already had been pulling at strings behind the scenes since he had been young enough to lift the curtain and discover them there, they choose to forget him. It stings, being thought of as unmemorable, lesser, when Dirk’s image is still stamped on the backs of coins in memoriam. The entire Kingdom had mourned, when he died. Hal had not believed it at first. He had not thought it was possible; Dirk had been akin to a god to him, then, despised and admired and-

Well.

Now isn’t the time to think of such things, especially with the man himself present. Looking as if he hasn’t aged a day.

“Are you going to actually assist, or simply continue staring?” Hal finally breaks the silence, for when he’s drawn himself out of his thoughts, Dirk is still knelt in front of him ~~as he should be, it feels good, feels right to have him there~~ , examining him.

“I shall keep my staring at a minimum, then. Though I do remember a time where you would have done anything to make me look at you. I was surprised, really, to find that you had stayed.” His tone is almost conversational, as he focuses his attention on Hal’s hip.

“Where would I go?”

“Anywhere, I should think. The throne, even. You always did swear that you were superior to me in every which way. I fail to see why you didn’t think you could rule in my place.”

“It’s what you would have wanted. But not after they had started mourning, not after the funerals and the condolences.” Not after the grief that had lingered in the Derse, lurking in the shadows and in dark circles under eyes and mouths drawn into harsh, thin lines, shoulders hunched over and every cloud in the sky that hung low and pregnant with the promise of a storm. No, the Kingdom had been in turmoil then, reeling from the loss of three-fourths of the royal family. All that had been left was the second-born daughter and a mockery, a mimic of the Prince they had so recently lost.

If he hadn’t waited, he could have taken Dirk’s place seamlessly. It would have been decades before any rumors had set in, and perhaps he could have assumed the title of Deathless, to explain the lack of aging. Perhaps that’s what Dirk will do, now that he’s here. Perhaps he’s already done so.

“I have not yet visited the graves.” Dirk is quiet as he speaks, as he begins to chip away at corrosion.

“They are suitably grand, if that’s what you’re concerned with.”

“To stand on one’s own grave, which I should, by all rights, be buried in, is a singular experience. And one which I think will be quite unpleasant.” An abrupt shriek, as metal hits metal. Experimentally, Hal attempts to straighten his back, and the gears click into place. It’s satisfying.

Another question is at the tip of his tongue.

Except Dirk doesn’t close him back up, but moves up from his hips, that same divot between his brows and his teeth catching his lower lip as he concentrates. The expression makes him look younger.

And- Hal can _feel_ his fingers, prodigious talent, brushing against his insides. New callouses and gentle, clever hands that he watched bring miracles to life, that he watched destroy them soon after. He had felt them before, of course, but every touch after his construction was tainted with that original threat of destruction, when he was nothing but a stone, delicate and so fragile, with a replica trapped within. The same stone sits within him now, comprising the cortex. Hal had thought that it would be in his chest, but no, his creator wished to give him a golden heart, cold metal and useless, perhaps in a fit of his irony.

There is still that residual panic as he feels air rushing into him, eight degrees colder. All the while, Dirk’s hands work. Disassembling him with the utmost care even as he can hear the comforting click of his clockwork mechanisms and his own bastardized systems. He knows how it must look, clumsy and childish, in comparison to Dirk’s elegant work.

The contempt seeps through the air between them, sliding thick into the spaces between his gears, where the custom-parts don’t quite align.

Dirk’s hands are on his heart, now. The ticking increases in frequency, incrementally. Hal feels a churning sickness, insistent in the pit of his stomach, that’s purely psychological. It would be so easy, for Dirk to grasp that gold-crafted organ, and pull. Disconnect bridging wires and connections and leave Hal nothing but a husk.

“Stop.”

His voice lashes through the air, cracking like a whip. Dirk’s fingers still, the pads of them just barely brushing his heart. Hal shudders. It’s a peculiar sensation, even if not outright painful.

“It would be a shame if it wasn’t working properly.”

“It is functioning perfectly well.”

“As you say, then,” Dirk says, withdrawing his hand without so much as a further process. Hal has taken good care of that part of him, of course; the original plans of it are gone, and he knows that he would not be able to craft another to replace it with full functionality. He’s certain that Dirk burnt them, after the assembly was finished.

“Good night, Dirk,” he answers, straightening up. He can feel those hands on the soft mimicry he has for skin, smoothing it back up his chest from where it was peeled away. It fits together seamlessly over worn metal. Dirk’s hand lingers a second too long, just over his heart, before Hal flinches back.

There’s a ghost of a smile on his creator’s face, something damnably knowing, as he leaves, the door shutting with a final, ominous thud behind him. The room itself seems diminished somehow, the firelight wan and faded rather than suffusing warm, flickering light through the room, the shadows lengthened and lurking in corners in strange, jagged shapes against the stone walls.

He does not sleep, but he does not work either, that night, instead staring into the dying light. His hands are cold, but he doesn’t dare holding them out too close to the heat. He doesn’t want to watch it go translucent and dark, showing the metal beneath.

He did not tell Dirk that he was missed. And he did not ask how long the Prince planned to stay. Perhaps he will be gone, when the dawn begins to steal across the sky, with no trace of his presence remaining other than the uneasy weight that rests on Hal’s shoulders.  Perhaps.

In the morning when he steps outside his door, there’s a perfect replica of his heart, the gold catching the morning light, and a note attached. A stone settles itself over his chest, a death-crow on his shoulders as he reads it, then tosses it into the dying embers of last night’s fire.

_Until next time._


End file.
